Chapter 51 #2
When she lifted her eyes to his, her cheeks were once again filling with heat. But she ignored that as she moved to the next scar she could see. This one was high on his ribs.
When her lips brushed his skin this time, he sucked in a breath.
Moving with deliberate care, she found another scar. Then another.
Carver was barely breathing when she found a thin scar that wrapped around his waist. She couldn’t see the end of it. Her stomach knotted when she realized it had been made by a whip.
With a gentle touch, she urged him to roll.
There was momentary hesitation, then abdominal muscles rolled and flexed as Carver sat instead. His eyes were trained on her for a suspended moment before he twisted, exposing his back to her.
She’d seen the lash marks many times before—even felt them in the darkness last night—but in the light of day, and after all they’d shared, she felt like she was seeing the horrible web of scarring for the first time.
Her heart beat too fast. Fury and pain filled her.
She reached out and traced one of the long, thin lines.
She hated how many others intersected it.
The agony each raised stripe represented.
She wanted to close her eyes, but she refused to look away. She would see and touch every mark his captors had given him. Carver had endured them—the least she could do was acknowledge them.
Carver’s dark head lowered at her exploring touch. He braced his hands against the mattress, the muscles in his arms tensing beneath bronzed skin that also bore scars.
Her finger stilled. “Is my touch hurting you?”
“Never.” The undercurrent of vehemence in his voice surprised her. But the absolute trust in it—trust in her—nearly undid her.
The air between them was charged, almost heavy. His sandalwood scent was all around her. His shoulders, broad and powerful, were tense, but not hunched. His sides expanded and contracted with every deliberate breath he took.
Amryn shifted closer, though she only touched his ruined flesh with the tips of her fingers. The powerful slope of his back, the dip of his spine . . . it was all marred by the lash marks that crisscrossed over his back, so many they blurred indiscriminately together in the center. Her eyes burned.
“I’m sorry they hurt you,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “No—I’m furious that they hurt you.” She wasn’t a violent person, but in this moment, she wanted vengeance. “I wish I was a harpy, and I had the ability to rip them apart for what they did.”
“Amryn . . .” Tenderness rolled through him, but before he could turn, she leaned in and began to trace kisses along every scarred inch of his back. Every kiss was gentle, but somehow felt incredibly bold, as well as achingly intimate.
His breathing thinned at the first brush of her lips, and each breath came faster than the last as she continued, but he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
When she laid a last kiss on his warm shoulder, at the very tip of a trailing scar, she whispered, “I would heal every single one of your scars if I could. But I need you to know that they aren’t a mark of failure or weakness. They are a testament to your strength.”
She didn’t realize tears had started sliding down her cheeks until he twisted to face her and his emotions—which were intense and hard to read—became even more tangled.
His hand settled against the side of her neck, fingers curling gently against her nape, his thumb brushing the underside of her jaw.
“Sweetheart,” he said on a rasping exhale.
But she wasn’t done. Blinking through her tears she said, “I love you, Carver Vincetti. Every strong, scarred, and infinitely beautiful part of you.”
Carver’s grip tightened. He was overwhelmed.
His emotions were churning; surprise, love, disbelief, awe, appreciation, and a desperate, rising need.
He leaned in and began kissing away each tear, just as tenderly as she had kissed his scarred back.
Then he was cradling her face in his hands, and he was kissing her lips with infinite gentleness.
His lips were salty from her tears, his mouth warm and coaxing.
Her hands slid up his muscled arms, over his broad shoulders, up his strong neck, and plunged into his thick hair.
She pulled him closer—or perhaps she was pulling herself into him.
She couldn’t get close enough. As their mouths slanted, changing the angle of the kiss, she was hardly aware of the fact that one of his arms had lowered and now encircled her back.
He tugged her into his lap, and their chests rose and fell against each other.
A sharp knocking on the door made Amryn jerk, breaking off their kiss. Carver groaned and instantly pulled her back. “They’ll go away,” he said against her lips.
The knocking came again, harsher than before. Cregon Vincetti’s voice rang through the door. “Carver? I’m breaking down this door if you don’t open it right now.”
Amryn’s eyes flew wide. She scrambled off Carver’s lap so quickly she would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her.
“Just a moment!” he called out, his hands tightening around her hips.
Carver was breathless, and she got a surge of feminine satisfaction from that.
But the fact that his father stood on the other side of the door made her painfully aware that her hair was wild, her eyes were probably as red as her cheeks, she had swollen lips, and her nightdress was askew as she sat on a rumpled bed.
Not to mention Carver was shirtless and his hair was standing straight up in places where her fingers had explored.
Carver rose, then looked down at her on the bed. Frustration gripped him hard, but when his eyes settled on her, the desire he’d felt only moments ago leapt to new heights. He cursed softly. “I swear the Scorched Plains are easier to bear than this.”
She ran a self-conscious hand over her riotous curls. “Sorry?” she said, the soft word coming out more as a question because she wasn’t exactly sure what she was apologizing for.
Carver’s eyes heated. “You have absolutely no reason to apologize.”
“Carver?” Cregon called impatiently through the door. “Open the door. Now.”
“I’m coming!” Carver yelled back. He glanced down at her, then grabbed the edge of the discarded sheet. He drew it up to her lap, covered her legs. Then he pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’m sorry my father has rotten timing.”
She didn’t have a chance to respond before he turned on his bare heel and marched to the door.
He twisted the lock and yanked the door open, though he blocked the opening with his body. “Amryn is still in bed,” he said. “We can talk in the hall.”
“No,” Cregon bit out, nearly bristling with a potent mix of anger and fear. “I need to search your room.”
Amryn’s hands fisted around the sheet. Her eyes instinctively darted to the corner of the room where she’d hidden the bloodstone and Saul Von’s journal.
Could he know she had them? Could he have learned she was an empath?
She couldn’t see behind his warrior’s bulk to know if someone else was in the hall.
She didn’t sense Rhone, but panic was making it hard to discern anything beyond Cregon’s blistering emotions.
“Why?” Carver demanded, his scarred back rigid.
Cregon looked past Carver, and his eyes landed on Amryn. The High General of Craethen’s jaw hardened.
Amryn’s lungs seized. She suddenly couldn’t breathe.
Cregon’s voice was low and dark as he said, “Ivan Baranov was attacked by assassins earlier this morning. We need to make sure you and Amryn aren’t in danger.”